The children are the first to know.

The children are the first to know

What they haven’t learnt in a lifetime.

What it is that is.

They already know as most important.

What we haven’t learnt in a lifetime,

They summed it up with their smiles.

What we have forgotten,

The children know most often.

And the children will show it to you

Even if you’ve forgotten.

Just this once

Let the children play,

Let the children scream

As loud as they desire!

Because their screams are of delight!

If you do not want to look bad

Just leave them be,

And smile.

The boy takes his fathers face

And tries his best to make a shape.

That moment,

Hanging on the hope

For his loving gaze.

But the human face,

It is nothing like Play-Doh.

And the child trips!

On what he doesn’t know.

So children,

This is why!

You must learn with all your might!

But as you do so,

Please don’t ever forget!

What is most important!

This was done recently, it's not meant to be read like a regular poem, you have to imagine that each stanza is in a single page of a kids story book which I intend to turn this into.

- Fatcrumb

On My Way.

If you have a spirit of endurance,

If you don’t mind that creativity

Is stenciled on the walls,

And that everything’s made of plastic,

I find that the airport can be a great spot,

For the on and on and on and on.

If you don’t mind

That the disposables are left

In the wake of the drifters,

Fuel for the everlasting movement,

That never returns.

I find that the airport can be a great spot,

A real sweet spot,

For the on and on and on and on.

If you don’t mind

That the caretakers of flight

Are in keeping

With their best static lie,

It is in keeping with the

On and on and on and on.

That they mimic the stance of

Their imaginary symbols,

The on and on and on and on,

Engulfs my heart tonight.

That these self-made symbols

Whisper

“Everything is worth it”,

With the same tenacity and pomposity

Of a pimple faced girl

Who says

“All is good for me,

I who have no company.”

Then get ready,

For the on and on and on and on.

That the dot on the map finally matters,

I am not concerned.

It is the heart of a nation

That perplexes me most.

Where is it?

The question goes on and on and on.

That those who have returned

From touching the great monoliths,

Dancing to the music of fading cultures,

That once knew life,

Barely feel it in their bones.

As they return with the sound

Of fading gypsies,

Going on and on and on and on.

These people,

Colorless like ghosts,

Convincing themselves,

Life is worth living,

While never feeling alive.

They go on and on and on and on.

And me?

I am on my way.

Buzz Street.

Standing naked,

Standing pink-eyed in the sun,

Standing with

The clothed,

Bearing down.

On a busy street,

Let me catch my bearings.

Let me arrive

On time,

Definitely

On time,

I must,

Be on time,

Even if,

A little undone.

This Holy fuzz,

Is telling me funny things about the weather.

A million hits

For a million faceless kisses.

Tricks,

Playing in the sun.

Let me soak in all of this,

Before my memory comes undone.

The Holy Fuzz,

Is telling me strange things about the weather.

Talk about the weather,

Talk about disease,

Talk about a feather.

In the sizzling heat, they run out of things to say.

In a blizzard, they run out of things to say.

 “Quickly,

Change the channel.”

Someone says.

“Or amuse yourself,

With a balloon.”

On a placard the phrases read:

Triple the employment.

Triple the Experience.

The Holy Fuzz is getting too abstract,

Its breath is foul,

And now,

It’s tripping over

The triplets of employment,

On a busy street,

That I am crossing,

A little undone,

And hopefully,

Very much in the nude.

Done on a busy day, 18^th of March. Jeremy gave a talk at CC (Scape). It was great! The kids I was teaching were difficult, but one or two were affected by the experience, and one or two is enough. They could be great artists in the future, who knows? I’ll keep hoping. Strangely, felt teary eyed all day. Remember feeling very disconnected with the reality of Orchard Road. I always feel a little disconnected there, a little strung-up. But Art helps a lot.

Sunday.

I find it difficult

Surrendering

To love.

I spent that day

With a white robe

Over my head.

And two white flags

For each hand.

I wasn’t trying

To be morbid

or anything.

It was just

My way of saying,

I was trying.

It was difficult to do

Anything else

That Sunday.

While waiting for her

To Christian me

As something

Loved.

It would have been

A great honor.

And in a way

It still was,

Being so close

To something.

On the edge.

But of course

It didn’t happen.

It may have been

That what I said

Was tainted,

Tainted by

Reckless thoughts.

If it didn’t come to mind

That she could just say it,

That she loved me.

And not actually mean it.

Maybe.

Maybe I could have kept

My mouth shut.

This is just

My way of saying,

I was trying.

So I was

trying.

There is no time for Sleepwalking.

This thing called ‘culture’

Is like a scuttling rat,

Too fast and slippery to catch.

There used to be a time where

The rats would overwhelm the masses.

Then we’d catch a whiff

Of the bubonic stage.

A slowly sipping poison,

Through, muzzles, cages, mazes

And the Internet.

And I am trying very hard

To be coherent,

And unpretentious,

And caring.

Amidst the waves of ceaseless information.

Culture lives externally

From methods of display.

There must be something

Wrong with us,

Cultureless like the rats

Who play in trash.

Trash that makes

The prostitutes and scavengers,

Stand like gods.

Our values unbeknown to us

We slip into it like sleepwalkers.

It takes a whiff to wake us.

A little too late,

A little too much.

The Wisdom of Old Flesh.

I observe them,

From the discipline

of staring blankly.

There is a world of wisdom

underneath those callous skins.

The wisdom of having learnt a great deal.

Obviously the old man,

Or woman,

Who whines all day.

About taxi drivers

Waiters

Maids

For all the kinds of service

Done wrong to them,

Except their own,

Haven’t learnt shit about patience.

And mercy,

And gratitude,

And expects none.

And the fetid flesh stinks.

But they have learnt so much about the opposites.

They know a world of bitterness.

And it is in that flesh.

The wisdom of their flesh

That stinks the earth,

And wraps the babies now.

Kids on Skateboards.

Kids on skateboards

Rolling to the back end,

Because the back end is where they feel they fit?

Shallow cute girls,

Talking about shallow cute boys.

They couldn’t get any louder.

Because they feel like they’re on top of the world?

Lost in the moment?

Lost in the moment.

The ugly people on the bus

Are all quiet.

Just saw the driver of this bus,

Leaving a man

Who chased after it,

But was a fraction to late.

And by law?

The bus moves on.

One of the cute girls leaves,

The one left takes out her phone,

Immediately.

The kids at the back

Yelp like Hyenas.

They seem to have the right to.

They have a significant number

Are of the same color

And they have skateboards.